


not so conventional (and it sure as hell ain't normal)

by why_me_why_not



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-30
Updated: 2011-04-30
Packaged: 2017-10-18 19:51:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/192609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/why_me_why_not/pseuds/why_me_why_not
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brendon gets kidnapped and sold into a prostitution ring. His new owner has secrets, though. WARNINGS: mentions of drug use, mentions of violence, suspected character death, stockholm syndrome, dub-con. Written for bandomvalentine on LJ, prompt 34. Brendon/Spencer, Kidnapping AU! maybe Spencer is part of a group of bank robbers and they kidnap brendon or take him hostage. Happy ending please (Maybe Spencer help him escape in the end, or something, maybe he was good all along, and so on).  Title is from Panic! at the Disco's Camisado.</p>
            </blockquote>





	not so conventional (and it sure as hell ain't normal)

Brendon opens his eyes slowly, cautiously. The past couple days are a hazy blur, a mishmash of nightmare and hallucination. It feels strange to wake up to clear – if dim – light and quiet.

He had been anxious to get to Europe, deciding to go ahead and fly over from the States alone when Cash – his college roommate and sometimes best friend – got delayed. He was naïve enough to think kidnapping was a horror story, something his parents had warned him against to keep him close to home, but he soon found out otherwise.

The memory of actually _getting_ himself kidnapped was quite vague – he remembered a bar, a couple of friendly, flirty older men with accents, and several rounds of free shots – but what happened afterward... Brendon shuddered just thinking about it. About the boys – some of them just _kids_ , younger even than himself – with their scars and their stories and their scared eyes. About the drugs they had fed him, needles in his arm and fire in his veins and the feeling of too-fucked-to-care. About the evil-looking woman watching over them, her cackle that reminded him of the Wicked Witch, the way she was amused when Brendon tried to protest being stripped down.

He remembers being paraded around a dark room, the only light being the one shining on him. He remembers being surrounded by whispers and then being auctioned off to the highest bidder. It had been just like a slave market of an era long past. Brendon wasn't usually so slow on the uptake, and he readily blamed the drugs for taking so long to realize he'd fallen into a prostitution ring.

He hadn’t even been given a blanket to wrap around himself before being shoved roughly into the back of a limo. Brendon wasn't sure how much time passed, how long he’d spent waiting and shaking and silently freaking out before the door opened and someone slid into the seat. Brendon's new _owner_.

He was watching Brendon, but Brendon couldn't make out the man’s expression in the dark car. He wanted to see, wanted to know what he was getting into. He waited for the man to say something, to address him or give him an order or do _something_ other than just stare. In the end, Brendon just hugged his knees for his chest, wishing he was back home in Nevada, playing video games in his dorm with Cash.

They arrived, finally, to wherever it was they were going and the man shrugged out of his jacket, offering it to Brendon and making no move to help him as Brendon took it with shaking hands and struggled to put it on. It was too broad in the shoulders, too big to be a good fit, but it was warm with the stranger's body heat and Brendon pulled it close around himself as he stumbled from the car.

Brendon tried to keep his balance, faltering as he followed along as the man started walking away, but now he was coming down from whatever he was on, he was cold, and he hadn't eaten in days. He tripped, wincing in anticipation of an up-close introduction to the pavement that never came. It took him a moment to realize that the stranger had caught him, hands strong and sure around his middle. The man sighed and scooped Brendon up, muttering something in flawless French. Brendon resisted the urge to snuggle up to him and fall asleep. The feeling of _safe_ was probably a hallucination; it was obvious that Brendon's character judgment was way off these days.

Brendon remembers waking several times, random intervals of freezing chills and feeling like he was being lit on fire from within. Most of the time he was alone, but once or twice he thought he had seen the man standing against the wall, watching, arms crossed over his chest. That, too, could have been a dream.

Now, though, Brendon is alone. There is a pitcher of water beside the bed, along with a glass. Brendon thinks he could probably drink the entire pitcher if his hands weren't shaking and if he trusted his captor. Instead, he untangles himself from the bedclothes and sits up, dangling his feet over the edge. They barely come into contact with the cold floor, but it's enough to make him wish for socks. Or clothes at all, actually. He looks around the room, wondering if he has been left anything. The room is bare, save the bed and the table next to it, and the lamp in the far corner casting a dull light over the room. There are no windows, and the door is undoubtedly locked. He bunches the sheet up to wrap around him and makes his way unsteadily to the door to try it anyway.

It doesn't budge, and Brendon gives it an encouraging kick. He hears movement outside the room and practically trips over his own feet trying to get back to the bed. He doesn't know what good that'll actually do – maybe he can beat his captor over the head with a pillow or something? – but he doesn't want to be standing by the door when it opens.

And open it does, revealing the man Brendon remembers. He's not as big as the picture in Brendon's mind, but his expression is just as impossible to read. He says something in French and Brendon shakes his head.

The man sighs. "English?" he offers, and Brendon nods his head, not sure if he'd be able to form words if he tried to speak. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd ever wake up."

"The drugs..." Brendon tries to explain.

Something flashes through the man's eyes too quickly for Brendon to catch. "Sorry for the homemade detox. I'm sure you understand why I couldn't take you to a hospital, but I prefer my companions to be... more willing."

Brendon doesn't make a snarky remark about how if he wanted a _willing companion_ , he wouldn't have bought one, but that may be because his stomach chooses that precise moment to express displeasure over its emptiness.

"I have to go out for a bit, meet with someone," the man says. "I shouldn't be long, but you'll have to say in this room until I return." He glances around. "The flat is soundproofed; so screaming won't do anyone any good. I'll bring food back."

Brendon watches him go, hears the lock of the door click in place behind him. He considers testing out the soundproof remark, but he's still tired and hungry and weak. The man hasn't killed him yet, and isn't feeding him drugs. It's probably safe to wait until he comes back, Brendon decides, and bide his time. He’ll think better on a full stomach anyway.

Several hours later, just as Brendon’s about to give up hope, his captor – who seriously needs a name before Brendon’s overactive imagination supplies him with one – makes good on his word to return with food. It smells heavenly, and Brendon is a little disappointed when he's led to the small kitchen to find it's just _soup_. Yeah, it's got noodles and veggies and some sort of meat, but it's not what he was hoping for.

The man must recognize the look on Brendon's face because he says, "It'll be easier on your stomach than something solid, since you haven't eaten much."

Brendon doesn't let himself acknowledge the evident concern in that thought. He'd been rehearsing in his head the demand for a shower and clothes. "Well, I hope you don't expect me to sit at your table and eat soup _naked_ ," he says with as much indignation as he can muster.

The man looks surprised, as though he'd somehow forgotten Brendon was _naked_ , and then points at Brendon. "Stay." He rushes out of the room and returns with a pair of sweatpants, holding them out like a peace offering. Brendon tells himself it was just his imagination, too many television dramas, and not actually the outline of a gun holster that he'd seen snuggled against the small of the man's back.

Brendon struggles into the pants and sits down at the table. "I want a shower too."

"Yeah, sure, after you eat." The man sits down across from Brendon and digs into his own soup.

Brendon carefully picks around the bits of chicken in his bowl. Being kidnapped doesn't change the fact he's a vegetarian, but he’s _hungry_. He ends up eating them anyway.

"What's your name?"

Brendon drops his spoon, startled by the sudden question. "Um, what?"

"Your name?" the man repeats, arching an eyebrow.

"Oh." Brendon wipes his mouth and sits back in his chair. "Um, Brendon. Brendon Urie."

"Brendon." The man nods, as if he's deciding the name fits Brendon. That's probably a good thing, because Brendon heard whispered rumors of some owners renaming their purchased boys and Brendon was actually quite fond of his name.

"What's yours?" Brendon asks.

"Spe- James. James Bateman."

Brendon pretends he doesn't hear the slip up and forces a smile, cocking his head to the side. "You don't look like a James."

The man – James – scowls at Brendon. "Yeah, and I also don't look like the kind of guy that'd buy a prostitute off the black market, but I just dropped two hundred grand on your ass, so what do you know?" He pushes away from the table and grabs both bowls, dropping them in the sink. "If you want a shower, come on before I change my mind."

After his shower – and doesn't it feel just heavenly to be clean again? -- Brendon is given a fresh set of clothes and put back in what is apparently his room. He's still a little freaked out about James's sudden mood change and he doesn't think to ask for something to do. It doesn't take long for him to regret this, when he's stuck staring at the wall, thinking about Cash and his dorm and his parents and _home_.

Brendon marks the passage of time by the number of meals. James doesn't mention it, but he brings Brendon meatless food, and Brendon wonders at the contradiction of his attitude and his actions. Brendon doesn’t know where he disappears to, hours at a stretch and random times of day and night, but he doesn’t think he has any right to ask. Or that he actually wants to know.

Brendon tries to stay quiet, which is difficult because really he likes to talk, and he mostly succeeds except for the one time he slips up when he sees the game console and says, "You're that hard up for friends that you had to buy a prostitute just to have someone kick your ass at Mario Kart?" He's horrified the instant he says it, wants to take it back and apologize because he never meant for it to come out that way, but James just laughs, honest to God _laughs_ and Brendon never noticed how blue his eyes are until they light up with that laughter, and he tosses one of the controllers at Brendon.

It's more comfortable than it should be, side-by-side on the couch playing video games with some spoiled rich kid who _bought Brendon for sex_ , but it helps a little. At least, Brendon's not freaking out, spilling all his secret fears and the fact that he really, really misses his mom right about now. James even allows him the freedom to wander around the apartment when he's there. It's not like Brendon's going to _run_. He has no idea where he is, where he would go. Besides, he has no doubt James would catch him before he finished undoing the locks on the front door, and yeah, that actually was a gun James was carrying, which places escape attempts pretty low down on Brendon's to-do list.

Brendon doesn't even question the fact that he has to stay in his room when James leaves. He's gotten used to the little space, and he's okay with spending hours there now that he's got books to keep him company. He's a little disappointed that the rest of the apartment seems to be just as bare and impersonal when he's given the opportunity to explore. Something about the situation feels off somehow, which is a thought that makes Brendon laugh quietly to himself because he's been kidnapped and sold as a prostitute to a man who hasn't so much as touched him; there isn't a whole lot about this situation that's _on_.

He makes the mistake more than once of thinking they're becoming friends, and each time he's startled by the icy look in James's eyes, in the harsh tone that reminds him he's only there because James paid for him to be.

Brendon's hiding in the kitchen, washing dishes and only halfway listening to the news on the television in the other room. He doesn't understand it; the broadcasts are all in French and other than the random swear word he's picked up from James while they were playing video games, he doesn't recognize any of it.

He may be a little lost in his own thoughts – woolgathering, his mother always called it – when a glass slips from his hands. He tries to catch it before it hits the floor, but the glass catches the edge of the counter and breaks so Brendon only succeeds in catching a shard of the glass against his palm. The cut's not deep, but it stings like a bitch and the blood runs freely through the water on his hand. He holds his injured hand close to him and starts to pick up the rest of the glass.

"What are you doing?"

He glances up, startled to find James directly in front of him although Brendon hadn't heard him enter the room. Brendon swallows hard – okay, maybe the thoughts he'd been lost in involved a less sinister explanation for James's gun-carrying, bilingual, stealthy ways. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to drop it."

James's sigh sounds exasperated, something that is actually familiar to Brendon, and he crouches down to pick up the rest of the glass, reaching behind him to toss them in the trash before reaching for Brendon's uninjured hand and tugging him to his feet.

James pulls Brendon over to the sink and presses up against him as he holds Brendon's hand under the running water, running his thumb over Brendon's palm. Brendon bites his lip and tells himself that the little whimpery noise he's trying not to make is because it _hurts_ and not because James is all solid heat and muscle against his back. Brendon shifts a little so they're standing more side by side and looks up at James. This close, he can see the smattering of freckles across his face, something he hadn't noticed before. James isn't looking at Brendon, though; his attention is thoroughly focused on their hands. Brendon licks his lips before he quietly apologizes again.

James shifts his gaze to Brendon, and his voice is soft, quiet, as he asks, "Are you okay?"

Brendon nods, slowly. His hand is fine, the cut is a little thing. It's the other parts of him, the parts that are reacting to James standing just a little too close and touching him, that aren't fine. Or really, parts that could be fine, that _want_ to be fine, even if it's really inappropriately fine.

James nods back, eyes flickering between Brendon's eyes and his lips and back. He runs his tongue over his own lips and leans in, and Brendon feels his heart beat just a little faster because this is it, after everything, _this_ is what it takes to get James to kiss him, but a sudden pounding on the front door interrupts them.

James practically jumps away from Brendon and reaches for his gun before he catches himself. He looks a little apologetic, and Brendon doesn't really want to know if he's sorry that he almost kissed Brendon or sorry that he didn't get that far.

"Stay here," James orders, flicking off the water and tossing a dish towel in Brendon’s direction. Brendon wraps it around his hand and waits until James leaves the room to walk to the kitchen doorway, curious.

“James!” Someone greets at the door, heavy accent and forced cheerfulness. He pushes past James, inviting himself and his companions into the room. He looks vaguely familiar to Brendon, in a way that screams “smarmy old coot”, and Brendon thinks he must be somehow involved in the prostitution ring. His suspicion is confirmed when the man continues, “We wanted to make sure you’re satisfied with your purchase.”

He catches sight of Brendon and his eyes light up. Brendon wants to hide. James turns to see where the man is looking and shakes his head. Maybe Brendon should have stayed out of sight.

“You understand my curiousness, yes?” The man addresses James, though his eyes are still on Brendon. “You’ve only ever bought gifts for others, never for yourself. Though I can certainly see why you chose this one.” He takes a couple steps towards Brendon, and suddenly James is in between them.

“No,” James growls. “He’s mine.”

Before Brendon has a chance to process the thrill he gets from that declaration of possessiveness, James wraps his fingers around Brendon’s arm, tight enough to hurt, and pushes Brendon back into the kitchen. “Go to your room and _stay there_.”

Brendon does as he’s told, but he keeps the door cracked open, listening. Not that it does much good, since they switch to French. Normally Brendon likes to listen to James talk, even when he has no idea what he’s saying, simply because it’s a pretty language, but this discussion isn't pretty; it's just rushed and angry. Finally, the visitors leave, and Brendon jumps guiltily away from the bedroom door when James enters.

“Do you ever listen?” James asks, running a hand through his hair.

Brendon shakes his head, earning himself a laugh. Well, it’s true! Listening isn’t exactly one of his strong points. “James…” Brendon starts cautiously. He’s not sure what he wants to ask about first. He has so many questions: about the visitors; about why Brendon is the only one he’s bought; about why he hasn’t so much as touched Brendon until today. Or whether or not James would like to pick up where they left off in the kitchen. If he’s okay.

In the end, Brendon doesn’t get the chance to ask anything.

“Come on,” James says brusquely. “Let’s bandage your hand.”

Brendon reaches out to touch him and James steps back, away from the touch. Like he doesn’t want Brendon to touch him.

“What the fuck, man?” Brendon steps up in James’s face. “You paid good money for me, and you won’t even _touch_ me? That’s so fucking beyond stupid I don’t even know where to begin. What is wrong with you?”

“Maybe I don’t want you, Brendon,” James says quietly, looking away but not backing down. “Maybe someone who lets himself get drugged and kidnapped and _sold_ isn’t what I’m looking for.”

Brendon knows it’s a lie, knows that some part of James wants him, has wanted him since the very beginning. Otherwise James would never have bought him, never have brought him home. “You said you like your companions willing, didn’t you? I’m here and I’m more than willing, and someone who _buys_ another human being isn’t what I’m looking for but I’m still _willing_.”

Brendon isn’t sure what he expects from James, but it isn’t for him to turn away.

“Whatever, Brendon. I’m going out.”

It’s not until he hears the front door slam shut that Brendon realizes he’s been given the perfect opportunity to get away. If he’s smart enough to take it.

Brendon thinks about it. He could totally walk out the door, find someone who could take him to the local authorities. He could find a ride to the American Embassy. He could be safely on a plane home within the next twenty four hours and taking the first step to putting this entire nightmare behind him.

And he’d never see James again.

That last thought shouldn’t bother him as much as it does, but it’s the one that keeps coming up as Brendon awkwardly bandages his hand. He gets as far as the door a few times, but in the end curls up on the couch to watch reruns of Friends (and even those are broadcast in French, which takes much of the fun out of it, in Brendon's opinion) while he waits for James' return. He’s mostly asleep when James comes in, but the noise wakes him up. Brendon pokes his head over the back of the couch and James freezes in the doorway.

“You’re still here,” James says.

If Brendon was more awake, he would roll his eyes and remark on James’s superpowers of observation. As it is, he nods and sits up. James drops his keys and trips across the room, far less coordinated than Brendon’s ever seen him. He can smell the alcohol when he gets close enough, even more so when James leans over the back of the couch, hand rough and hot around the back of Brendon’s neck as he kisses him hard.

Brendon brings a hand up to wrap around James’s forearm, leaning into the kiss. “James,” Brendon whispers, pulling away. It’s not that he doesn’t want this – he _does_ – but he needs a moment to think.

“Spencer,” James corrects, and Brendon stops.

“What?” Really, his name isn’t that hard to remember.

“Spencer,” he repeats. “My name is Spencer, not James.” Then he’s urging Brendon up off the couch and in the direction of the master bedroom.

Brendon goes willingly enough, barely taking the time to notice the rumpled nest of sheets and blankets on the bed before he’s being pushed down onto them. They smell like James – Spencer – and Brendon has a moment to wonder why he didn’t come take a nap in here instead of on the couch. Then Spencer is crawling up onto the bed beside Brendon, pressing Brendon deeper into the blankets with a hand on his belly and kissing him again.

Brendon knows there is so much wrong about this whole thing, but right now he really doesn’t care. Right now, all he wants is _this_ and he wants _more_ and he wants Spencer to take his goddamn clothes off so Brendon can feel bare skin beneath his hands. Brendon fumbles with the buttons on Spencer’s shirt, trying to undo them all at once without having to look, or without having to stop kissing Spencer. He finally manages to get them all undone and pushes Spencer’s shirt back before shifting his focus. He runs his hands over Spencer’s belly, dips beneath his undershirt and slides around to his back. And freezes because the Spencer formerly known as James carries a gun and Brendon is probably fucking crazy for staying here.

Spencer sits back on his knees, shrugging out of his shirt and pulling the undershirt over his head. He pulls the gun out and leans over to set it on the bedside table before turning his attention back to Brendon. He tugs at the bottom of Brendon’s t-shirt and Brendon shifts a little, helps him pull it off. Brendon’s got his hands above his head, arms still tangled in his shirt, when Spencer wraps his hands, sure and solid, around Brendon’s wrists and presses them against the bed. He straddles Brendon’s waist and leans down to kiss him again, more controlled than the sloppy drunk kisses from before, and Brendon can barely _breathe_ with the weight of Spencer pinning in him place and the way Spencer is kissing him like he’s trying to coax Brendon into spilling his deepest, darkest secrets. And Brendon would, he totally, totally _would_ , if he could remember any words other than, “Spencer.”

Spencer pulls back with a goofy grin, all open expression of youth and drunkenness. “I like it when you say my name,” he whispers, like it’s some sort of secret. And maybe it is, maybe this is his version of some kinky sex game, but Spencer fits him more than James, and Brendon likes the way it rolls off his tongue. Besides, Brendon’s got some recently discovered surprising kinks himself, so he can’t really judge.

“Spencer,” Brendon teases.

Spencer shakes his head and lets go of Brendon’s hands, bringing his own up to cup Brendon’s cheek, run his thumb over his lip. Brendon slips his tongue over the pad of Spencer’s thumb, the first hint of taste of Spencer’s skin. He doesn’t think he imagines the noise Spencer makes, but just to test the theory he sucks Spencer’s thumb into his mouth, nips teasingly as he releases it.

Spencer really does growl at that, and his hand slides back to tangle roughly in Brendon’s hair, holding him there while he bestows a rough, biting kiss upon him. “Fuck, Brendon.” Spencer’s breathing is ragged and his voice is rough. Brendon loves it. “I want… can I?”

“Anything, whatever,” Brendon says, squirming a little underneath Spencer. “Whatever you want. I’m yours, right?”

Spencer makes another growly sound and rolls off Brendon, hands going straight to the button on his pants. “Pants off, Brendon,” he orders. “Now.”

Brendon doesn’t have to be told twice. He shimmies out of his sweatpants, briefs going with them, and then Spencer’s shoving the blankets off the edge of the bed and pressing against Brendon. And god, this is what Brendon wanted, nothing but hot skin pressed against his and fingers tightening on his waist and Spencer’s breathing low and rough in his ear.

Later, much later, when Brendon finally wakes up, it takes him a few moments to figure out where he is, and that the warm body snuggled up behind him, arm wrapped heavily around him, isn't a dream. He sighs and burrows closer to Spencer, further into the covers. It's too cold in the apartment to be awake.

"Too early," Spencer mumbles, almost as if in response to Brendon's thoughts. "Go back to sleep."

Brendon would, really, but he kinda wants to be awake for this. He _likes_ this, waking up next to Spencer, knowing they can spend all day in bed now that Spencer's finally decided to admit he wants Brendon. And they might need all day, with everything Brendon's got in mind. Which is probably really, _really_ fucked up, but hey, Spencer is really, really fucking _hot_. Plus, he can hold Brendon down without much of an effort, and he's got moves that Brendon thinks are probably illegal in some countries.

"Stop thinking so loud." Spencer punctuates his complaint by nipping at Brendon's shoulder, so Brendon doesn’t think he's actually upset. Still, Brendon rolls over so he's facing Spencer, sliding his hands over Spencer's chest and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, contemplating starting something since they're both obviously awake. And Brendon... well, Brendon has a _list_.

Brendon doesn't even make it through number one on his list – sleepy handjobs are totally a good place to start – when there's the sound of the front door being kicked open and shouting in some language Brendon doesn't recognize. Spencer barely hesitates before rolling away from Brendon, going for the gun on the nightstand, but once he has it in hand he turns back to Brendon. Really, Brendon doesn't know when he developed a gun kink, but even in the midst of whatever the fuck is going on, he's distracted by thoughts of _really fucking hot_ , and it takes a fraction of a second too long for it to register that Spencer's talking, giving him an order.

" _Now_ , Brendon!" Spencer looks more freaked out than as angry as his tone implies, and Brendon would really like to respond to whatever it is he was told to do, but he has no idea what it was. Spencer gives him a helpful push and Brendon falls, quite ungracefully, off the far end of the bed just as whoever their uninvited guests are enter the room in a haze of gunfire.

Brendon bites his lip, hard enough to draw blood, and squeezes his eyes shut. He wants to lift his hands up to cover his ears – the yelling and the shots and the general commotion is too much – but he's afraid if he does that he'll miss it if Spencer tells him to do something. Or maybe he's just too scared to move; that's a distinct possibility. He hopes that all those ridiculous action movies he and Cash had watched had some truth in them – namely that bad men with guns have horrible aim.

Brendon's caught completely off guard when someone grabs his arm and jerks him to his feet. His eyes fly open and he's face to face with one of the guys from yesterday. Brendon struggles, tries to pull away despite the voice in the back of his head not-so-helpfully pointing out that _this man has a gun and it's the complete opposite of hot_ , and even opens his mouth for the start of a scream, but it dies when he sees Spencer. Spencer is lying face down on the floor on the opposite side of the bed, blood from some unseen wound seeping into a small puddle beside him. Brendon doesn't notice the needle until it's sticking in his arm, and he's a little too glad when he falls prey to the darkness of whatever drug they've given him.

The next time Brendon opens his eyes, there’s cold, hard concrete beneath him and a stench that’s worse than the time Cash left an open lunchable under the bed for a week. Brendon can’t see, but he _knows_ he’s back where it started, where he was first taken after he was kidnapped. Surprisingly, he’s not scared. Not for himself at least; he is worried about Spencer and he takes a moment to let himself freak out because what if he’s dead, or what if he’s _not_ and nobody finds him because no one heard the shots. Soundproofed. Who the fuck has a soundproofed apartment? Worrying about Spencer is probably not the best thing to be doing right now, though, so Brendon tries to take stock of himself. He’s naked, of course, and sore, but he’s pretty sure that’s just leftover from the really fucking awesome sex – which leads his train of thought right back to Spencer and the fact that if he hadn’t been shot, he would totally be here to rescue Brendon, right? – and whatever they gave him was enough to knock him out and leave him feeling woozy but apparently the dosage wasn’t repeated.

Brendon isn’t getting sold again; he won’t do it. Luckily, he’s more angry than scared, and the anger is taking precedence over his common sense, so when he hears footsteps outside the door of the room, he makes his way to his feet and positions himself in place to pounce on whoever is the one to open it. He doesn’t look, doesn’t even think, just _jumps_ , bringing up every bit of dirty fighting he knows. He manages to take the man by surprise, enough that he takes several steps back and gives Brendon the opportunity to take off running. He doesn’t know where he’s going, just that he’s not giving in this time without a fight, and he’s convinced that if he can find a way outside of the building, he’ll be okay.

He catches sight of sunlight, an open door, and changes course, heading down a side corridor towards it. He doesn’t quite make it, though, running into a wall of a man, and he has to fight to keep from crying in frustration over how close he to escape he had been, even as he struggles to pull away from the man who has caught him. It takes him a minute to realize that the grip on his wrists is meant more to calm him down with restraint than to hurt him, and whoever the man is knows his name, is repeating “Brendon” over and over, trying to get his attention.

Brendon stops struggling and looks around, noticing one of the men from Spencer’s apartment lying on the ground in a pool of blood, staring at the ceiling with vacant eyes. Around him are several others, face down and hands cuffed behind their backs. The man holding Brendon takes one of his hands away, pulls a badge from his inner jacket pocket to flash at Brendon. “Zack Hall, Special Investigations.”

Brendon wants to laugh in relief, or let loose all the tears that have built up, or maybe scream at this Zack guy for not getting there sooner, but instead he takes a deep breath and a step back, gratefully accepting the blanket a woman in uniform is holding out to him. He knows it’s probably not a good idea, knows he doesn’t even want the answer, but he asks anyway. “The man, the one who bought me from here originally… They came and took me from his apartment his morning. Is he…” Brendon trails off, not able to finish that, even in his head.

Zack glances around the room, looking a little apologetic when he meets Brendon’s eyes again. “James Bateman is dead.”

Brendon nods, like it’s not a big deal, when he’s really just filing it away for later.

“C’mon, let’s get you out of here.” Zack ushers Brendon out the door and into a waiting car. Brendon doesn’t think to question why he’s getting special treatment when all the other boys are apparently being herded into ambulances together. It’s not until after the fact, three days later when he’s on a plane headed for home with his mother hovering anxiously on one side of him and Cash ten times as bad on the other, that he thinks it’s strange that his interviews with the investigators are significantly shorter than the others, and that they don’t ask him to testify.

He tries to put it behind him. He goes to class and does just enough to get by. He goes out on Thursday nights to watch Cash play in his shitty college band at the even shittier college bar on the corner below their dorm. He has dinner with his parents twice a week and a meeting with the counselor they found for him even more often. He pretends that he’s getting better, that he doesn’t have nightmares about being back in that place, that he doesn’t have nightmares about Spencer. Those are the worst, the dreams about Spencer, because he can’t just relive that night without thinking that it’s somehow his fault, like Spencer wouldn’t have been so slow to react that morning if Brendon hadn’t been distracting him. That Spencer wouldn’t be _dead_ if he had kept his distance from Brendon.

Brendon’s therapist has a lot of psychobabble to relate in response to his dreams, but it all boils down to the same couple things: that Brendon shouldn’t feel any attachment to Spencer because Spencer was a _bad man_ , and he shouldn’t feel responsible for Spencer’s death because Spencer _got what he deserved_. Brendon doesn’t believe it from her any more than he does from his parents.

Cash, for all his faults, doesn’t try to stop Brendon from believing Spencer was a good person. He listens faithfully to each and every one of Brendon’s theories about Spencer’s true story, and his usual response is a beer and an expression of regret at never having met the mysterious Spencer.

Brendon doesn’t know what makes him feel worse.

Three months later and Brendon’s at the bar, working on his third beer and watching Cash and Ian argue as they try to get their equipment set up on stage. Tonight it’s something about not winding the cords up right; Brendon thinks they make this shit up half the time just to have something to fight about. Brendon rolls his eyes and turns away, signaling the bartender for a fresh bottle.

“You sure that’s a good idea?”

Brendon practically falls out of his seat when he whirls around to face the voice that’s been haunting his dreams. Spencer is standing not two feet away from him, looking out of place but still exuding confidence, a small smile on his lips. Brendon glances around to see if anyone else is paying attention to them; it wouldn’t be the first time he imagined seeing Spencer. But the girl walking past them definitely checks him out, so apparently he’s not imaginary.

“Um…” Brendon doesn’t even know where to start. _I thought you were dead_ would be a hell of an icebreaker, but the words don't come. Instead he looks helplessly up toward the stage, trying to catch Cash’s attention.

“Let me start over,” Spencer says, stepping closer and reaching around Brendon to hand his credit card to the bartender. “Mr. Urie’s tab is on me.” He waits until the bartender walks away to turn his focus back to Brendon. “Hi, I’m Spencer Smith. I work for an International Special Investigations organization. I can’t even tell you the name of it for security reasons; most people don’t know we exist, including some countries' official authorities. For the past three years, I’ve been working to bring down a prostitution ring based in France. I was posing as a rich kid, blowing daddy’s money. Every few months, I’d buy a new boy from the ring, say he was a gift and send him back home to his family. Then, one night, I got you.” Spencer's voice drops as he adds, “I wanted you from that very first night, Brendon.” He steps closer and Brendon looks away, not sure if he can actually believe what Spencer is saying. Spencer grabs Brendon’s chin and forces him to look up. “I _hated_ not being able to tell you the truth, and I hated myself for wanting you when you had no choice. Even though you said you were willing, you were still my prisoner. _My possession_. That’s not what I wanted. If I hadn’t gone out to meet Zack that night, hadn’t had a few too many beers in celebration of the fact we had a solid case to finally make a bust… Well, I’m not saying that night wouldn’t have happened, but I was wrong to let it.”

“Zack…” Brendon clears his throat, brings his hand up to wrap around Spencer’s and pull it away. “Zack said you were dead.”

“He had to. There were still men out there who could find James Bateman, who would never stop looking since they suspected him of being a traitor to their secret. And really, James Bateman died that morning.”

“There was blood. You were shot.”

Spencer rolls his eyes. “Flesh wound. Nothing a bandage couldn’t fix.”

Brendon has a feeling he’s lying about that one, but he lets it go. “Why didn’t you tell me? Or have Zack tell me later; he’s called a few times to check in. You had to know where I was.”

Spencer laughs. “Zack is a little overprotective. He acts like a grizzly sometimes, but he’s really just a teddy bear. He wanted to make sure I wasn’t just making myself believe there was something between us. He said he was worried that I’d been under too long, and that’s why I fell for you. But that wasn’t it. It was _you_ , Brendon. Just you.”

Brendon wants to believe him. He _does_ , but he _can’t_. He also can’t think when Spencer is standing so close to him, smiling hopefully, and Brendon’s pretty certain this isn’t a dream or a hallucination. He doesn’t trust himself, though, so he takes a step back. “I thought you were _dead_. You can’t just waltz in here, all smiles and nonchalance, and expect me to… what? Invite you back to my apartment? Pick up where we left off?” And really, if Brendon wasn’t worried about the consequences, or if he actually thought Spencer _was_ another hallucination, he might be willing to do just that. “Everything you ever told me was a lie. _Everything_. Why should I believe you now?”

Spencer’s smile falters but holds. “Not everything,” he clarifies. “I really was letting you win at Mario Kart. I fucking hated that bean casserole crap you made that night. I _do_ like the way you look in my shirts. That night, Brendon… that last night wasn’t a lie.”

Brendon’s staring at his shoes, trying to digest this bit of information, when his phone buzzes. He pulls it out and sees a text from Cash. _whos the dude?_

He glances up and sees Cash staring at him and Spencer from across the room. He bites his lip and texts back, _Spencer_ before sliding his phone back into his pocket and looking up at Spencer with a sigh. “Look, I _want_ to believe you. It’s just—“

Brendon doesn’t get to finish his sentence because someone pushes past him and decks Spencer He’s startled – pretty damn near floored, actually -- until he realizes Ian is beside him, and the scuffling on the floor is _Cash_ and _Spencer_. And Spencer is just letting Cash hit him, not fighting back at all, just blocking his face until Ian and one of the Alexes pulls Cash away.

Cash struggles against his friends’ hold for a moment, but finally quits trying to pull away. “Stay away from Brendon.” His voice is completely calm, but there is more anger and tension behind it than Brendon has ever heard.

Brendon steps in between them as a few of the other bar patrons help Spencer to his feet. “Cash,” he says, voice low and shaky. He’s not sure what he wants to say.

“I thought he was dead. That’s what you said, right?” Cash is breathing heavy, still upset, and Brendon feels a rush of warmth that Cash cares enough about him to _fight_ for him.

“I thought he was,” Brendon whispers, glancing over his shoulder. “Apparently not.”

“You’re not leaving here with him.”

It’s not a question, but Brendon nods his agreement anyway.

Cash looks around Brendon so he can see Spencer. “ _You_.” He points to emphasize his point, as if anyone else would think he was talking to them. “If you fuck with his head any more than you already have, I _will_ kill you. Or have you killed. I don’t care who you are.”

Spencer holds his hands up in a gesture of surrender. Brendon notices his lip is busted and bleeding, probably from that first hit that Cash landed. “Cash, right?” Spencer asks, waiting for Cash to nod before he continues. “I’m not going to fuck with his head. I just want a chance to explain. You can be there, if Brendon wants.”

Cash stares at him for a moment and then turns his attention to Brendon. “There’s a table off to the right of the stage – my right, when I’m up there. I wanna be able to see you two. After, we’ll talk about it.” He lets Ian lead him through the crowd before Brendon answers.

Brendon watches them walk off, shaking his head. He doesn’t know whether to feel angry that Cash thinks he has the right to order Brendon around or grateful for his friendship. Then again, Brendon also doesn’t know whether to feel angry that Spencer’s here after everything or special because Spencer came after him. He’s almost surprised that Spencer is still there. Spencer moves up to stand beside him. “Where is this table we’ve been delegated to?”

Brendon leads the way through the crowd and doesn’t say anything as he sits down. He can feel Spencer watching him as he peels the label off the fresh bottle of beer the waitress brings over.

“Hey.”

Brendon keeps playing with the bottle.

“Hey, Brendon, come on.”

Brendon sighs and looks up. “Spencer.”

“Do you want me to go?” Spencer gestures towards the door but doesn’t give any indication that he actually wants to move.

Brendon shakes his head. He doesn’t. He’s just… _scared_. He thought Spencer was dead, but he’s not. He’s here, and he let Brendon’s friend hit him, and he’s _still_ here, even though Brendon’s not even talking to him. Brendon reaches under the table and takes Spencer’s hand. Spencer looks startled, and Brendon starts to pull away, but Spencer threads their fingers together and keeps him there.

Brendon knows they’re not going to have an easy, fairytale ending. There are too many issues, too many lies between them. But there is nothing they can’t work out, talk about, _try_. Brendon catches Cash staring at them and gives him a weak smile. He thinks that, between his Cash and Spencer’s Zack, they’ll have plenty of support to tell them when they’re being stupid. It’ll work, somehow. He’s just glad they’re getting the chance.


End file.
